an ode to Albrecht Hirche
I’m standing there in berlin, dressed in black
That ennio morricone music playing,
TWANG! I raise my black stetson,
Lights come up, music swells,
I swagger down off the stage to meet my enemy.
Iam super baaaad.
Baddest thang on two continents.
I am in hog heaven, grandma.
One of the best moments in my damn life, yer honor.
Then, I am sitting under the seats in a mattress-striped rolling stones suit
Not smoking. Rauchen verboten. Should be smoking. Virtually smoking, then.
Next, I am riding a no-speed bicycle with flat tires around and around and around
Praying “dear god, don’t let me fall off this thing”.
I dismount and whip out my blazing git-tar
Whoooo! Get back Loretta, I am Johnny B. Goode his own self,
I plays “Lucille”
Whoo! Y’all kin fry a egg on my “Lucille”.
Hot rats, bwana! Bop ‘til youse drop!
Before I know it, I am lying in a coffin with a radio clutched over my crotch.
I hear Mozart’s requiem
I practice being so triumphantly dead. Dead in a Mozart manner.
I see my own state funeral and all the earnest mourning over my illustrious passing.
“He was a simple man….a brilliant man…great, in a word”
Boo hoo hoo, so elegantly sad like a black rose in a dog’s mouth.
Long black nylon hairs from the lead actor’s wig fly up my nose.
(left there from his previous occupancy, I suppose)
My hands are pinned to my sides. I cannot scratch my itch.
I try to enter an itch-free universe by chanting mantras.
It is not working.
All of these mystic moments brought to you by Albrecht Hirche.
All of these and more.
Come to give me stories to tell when I thought they was all told, officer.
Lay apostle of the first and last church of rock n’ roll.
Brother in arms.
Atom eyebitch tits.
Shanti, shanti, shanti.
Blaine L. Reininger